Filling in the Spaces
by JackieJLH
Summary: During the second war against Voldemort, Petunia Dursley spent nearly a year in hiding with her family. This is her story.   Companion piece to 'All Those Empty Spaces'.
1. Day 1

**A/N: **This story is a companion piece to All Those Empty Spaces, which should probably be read before beginning this one. While All Those Empty Spaces tells the story of Petunia's fortieth birthday in hiding, this story encompasses the entire year the Dursley family spent in the wizarding safehouse. The chapters are short-ish because it was originally posted as part of a challenge that called for short chapters, so even though it'll ultimately be 100 chapters once completely posted, it's not actually _that_ long of a story. Lol. Enjoy!

* * *

_Mrs Dursley,_

The note is addressed only to her because Vernon didn't want any involvement with magical parchment or magical baskets and because Dudley balked at the idea of learning to write with a quill. Petunia's not thrilled with it either, but looks at things more practically - they need food, and this is the only way to get it.

Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle had planned to stay here with them, but the house is so small, and she and Vernon had protested vehemently. So the Dursley family had been left to themselves, and the witch and wizard had gone to Ms Jones' home. Mr Diggle had said something about Death Eaters knowing what side he was on and that he didn't think it safe to go to his own home. Of course, Petunia and Vernon had disapproved - it seemed obvious what two from that lot would get up to when left alone for any length of time, and they suspected that the likelihood of an actual Death Eater attack on their ridiculous little guardian was really quite small.

Now Petunia almost wishes they hadn't made their protectors leave. The house is tiny, yes, but it's also eerily silent, dark and gloomy. The sounds of the world going on around them filter in through the heavily covered windows. _Muggle sounds,_ her mind whispers. She tries to remember a time when she didn't think of herself as a Muggle, but can't.

_As we discussed, this basket will return to me every  
Thursday at 11 p.m., and I will send it back at the same  
time Friday night. Please write any correspondence only  
on the parchment I gave you, with the quills I gave you,  
as it will keep anyone else from being able to read it.  
Also, again, please do not discuss your location or anyone  
else's or any information that may be used against us  
should the letter be intercepted, just in case. I cannot  
stress the importance of this enough.  
_

Petunia rolls her eyes. She's not an idiot, and she resents being treated like an imbecile simply because she can't do magic, as if she's not completely aware of what sort of danger her family is in and how much their safety depends on their ability to remain hidden.

_I wanted to give you an update on things, as well. Harry  
made it to the previously discussed location. Unfortunately,  
the trip was not without casualties. We lost Mad-Eye  
Moody (I don't know that you ever met him, but  
he was a brave man and an asset to the Order) and Harry's  
owl. But Harry is safe, and that's what's most important  
right now._

_Please let me know if you need anything. Tapping the  
handle of the basket three times with the quill will send it  
back early, but please only do so in the event of a true  
emergency - I can't guarantee that no one else will be  
present to see its arrival if I don't know to expect it._

_~Hestia Jones_


	2. Days 4 & 5

The quill splotches ink across the parchment if Petunia doesn't hold it correctly, and she finds herself writing like a child, with large, shaky letters and a level of difficulty apparent just by the note's appearance. She frowns, tears the parchment in two, and begins again on the clean half, her words slightly more legible now. Vernon grumbles at the sight of the quill, narrows his eyes at the level of concentration on her face, and shuffles away.

_Ms Jones,_

_Thank you for making these provisions for my family._

_And for turning us into prisoners, and taking away our lives,_ Petunia thinks bitterly, but continues on. Wizards are fickle, she's found, and she wouldn't put it past them to 'forget' to send food if she angered them. _Maybe it's for the best,_ she muses, _that Vernon isn't writing these letters._

_I'm sorry to hear of your losses. I trust that you will continue  
to send us any news pertinent to our situation?_

_~ Petunia Dursley _

Thursday comes. The basket disappears from the table with an audible POP, and Petunia gasps, nearly jumping out of her seat. Dudley and Vernon are already sleeping, but she's waited up to make sure that everything goes as planned. She stares at the now-empty place on the table for what seems like hours, and then decides to go to bed. They only have enough food left for one more day, and she prays that Ms Jones will not forget them.

* * *

She doesn't forget. At promptly eleven p.m. the following night, the basket reappears with a _POP_, and this time they're all up and waiting for it. Vernon snatches the newspaper tucked into the side, then tosses it away when he sees _The Daily Prophet_ written across the top. Petunia surveys the food and nods her approval - it will do. She plucks a rolled piece of parchment from under a loaf of unsliced bread and carefully breaks the wax seal, and skims its contents before saying a word, just in case there's anything there that Dudley shouldn't hear.

_Mrs Dursley,_

_I'm afraid things are progressing more quickly than we'd  
expected. The Ministry of Magic fell into the hands of the  
other side today, and there was an attack at the place  
where Harry was staying. Harry and his friend Hermione  
fled during the attack and went into hiding. I've received  
reports that they are alive and uninjured. I will send you  
further information if and when I receive it._

_~ Hestia Jones _

"What's wrong?" Vernon asks. Petunia realizes that she's been sitting staring at the letter, and wonders if she looks as afraid as she feels. Taking a deep breath, she begins reading the letter aloud. When she's done, Dudley pushes his chair back from the table and goes upstairs without a word. Vernon takes the parchment from her and reads it silently, his face growing red. He puts the letter down without a word, meets his wife's fearful eyes, and rests his hand over hers.


	3. Day 9

Petunia stares at the parchment before her for hours. That's fine, really. The house was cleaner than seemed natural (she knows that's because it was cleaned using unnatural means and resents that a little) when they arrived, and it doesn't take much work to keep it that way. There's no electricity, so there's also no telly, no games for Dudley. No phones, either. No going outside; that's one of the rules. No opening the windows, just in case, even though the house can't be seen from the street. The dim candlelight gives everything a haunted glow, and the heavy drapes block out the sun, and sometimes Petunia watches the clock and wonders if it's six a.m. or six p.m.

Not that the time matters. They sleep, they eat, then they sleep some more. Dudley does sit-ups and lifts weights in his room, jogs back and forth down the hall. Vernon sulks and complains, and spends most of his time staring into space or sitting in the same old armchair, his eyes closed but the pattern of his breathing betraying the fact that he's lying awake, as if waiting for something. Petunia's not sure what that something is.

They found nearly a dozen children's books in the spare bedroom, and she immerses herself in their words. She gives in and reads _The Prophet_, flinching as the pictures on the front page move suddenly and startle her. She reads and rereads Hestia Jones' letter, looking for some hint of what's going on that she may have missed. Everything must be subtlety and secrets now; nothing can be explained properly. It's frustrating, but sometimes she's not sure she wants to know.

She can't decide what to write on the parchment. Should she ask for news? She's already done that, and Ms Jones seems to be giving news to her willingly, so it'd be pointless to ask again. She doesn't want to send thank-yous every week; it's not as if they asked to be sent here, and they're not going to pretend to be happy about it for even a moment. And yet the fact that Ms Jones is risking her life by sending them provisions and information every week deserves thanks. Petunia's fairly certain that it wasn't her idea to send them here either; the young witch didn't seem important enough. Although, neither did Harry Potter, and now they're all counting on him to save the world, so one could never really tell.

Finally, she settles for something simple.

_Ms Jones,_

_Thank you for your letter and for the supplies. The news  
you sent was unsettling, but I am grateful that we are  
receiving it all the same._

_Vernon has asked me to request a Muggle newspaper.  
He's used to reading one every morning with breakfast.  
Obviously a daily paper isn't possible, but perhaps  
weekly?  
_

She pauses, considers this for a moment, and changes that line.

_Obviously a daily paper isn't possible, but perhaps  
weekly, if it's not too much trouble and doesn't involve  
too great a risk on your part._

She reads over the note again and nods. She almost finishes there, but can't keep herself from writing one last thing. For Dudley's sake. He's been having nightmares.

_Harry mentioned that there were more Dementors and  
that they were spreading. Can they find us here? Do your  
spells work against them?_

_~Petunia Dursley _


	4. Days 9 & 12

That night Petunia dreams of Sirius Black. His picture as it appeared on the news watches her from its frame on her wall, but it's moving, screaming silent threats. He reaches through the frame for her, and when she turns to run, he's waiting behind her, too. He's everywhere, behind every corner, around every turn, and she can't escape.

She wakes up with a shout, her heart racing. Vernon is shaking her gently. "Petunia!" he says in a low voice. "You're having a nightmare."

"S-s-sorry," she whispers, and then bursts into tears. Vernon holds her tightly against him that night, but she doesn't feel safe - how can her Muggle husband protect her when James and his magic couldn't protect Lily? - and she lies awake until the clock tells her it's time to start her day.

* * *

_Mrs Dursley,_

_I'm afraid I don't have much news, good OR bad, this  
week. We don't hear much, and what little we do hear  
can't be passed on, but I assure you that nothing that  
will affect your situation has occurred. We're all just  
keeping our heads low for now and hoping for the best._

_As to your question, no, thankfully, Dementors can't find  
you any easier than any wizard can right now, and the  
only way for that to happen would be for the hideout's  
Secret Keeper to give away the secret, and she won't, not  
even if her life depends on it. Dementors are only one of  
the things to be concerned with now, though, so if you see  
anything suspicious, even just a person passing by that  
seems out of place, make sure you tell me._

_I've included a copy of The Times from last Sunday. I  
wasn't sure what paper Mr. Dursley would prefer, and it  
was the only one I could manage to get my hands on so  
quickly. Perhaps I can send something for you or your  
son this week? Please let me know._

_So many things have been changing lately; I'm not sure  
that you even want to hear about it, but I feel like you  
should be aware. There have been more attacks, mostly  
on individual families. Dedalus's home was burnt down  
because of his association with the Order; I'm just  
thankful that so far, they have no reason to suspect me of  
siding with the Order because I've never publicly leaned  
either way. One of Harry's friends is now wanted for  
questioning due to being a Muggle-born. Lots of other  
Muggle-borns are being taken into custody for  
'questioning' as well. Most of them don't seem to come  
back. As far as I've heard, Harry's still safe and hasn't yet  
been discovered._

_School is starting soon; I don't know yet what will  
become of the Muggle-born children. Many of them aren't  
going back, but some will, no matter how much we urge  
them to reconsider. With the Ministry under You-Know-  
Who's control, there's no telling what Hogwarts will be  
like this year._

_Speaking of school, I know that your son was supposed to  
start his final year this September. If you'd like any  
schoolbooks for him so that he can continue his studies,  
please let me know what to look for, and I'll see what I  
can do._

_You'll find that I've sent along a small bag of clothing.  
Without any way for you to wash your clothes other than  
in the bathtub, I thought you might appreciate these  
instead. They're very comfortable, and they have  
automatic cleaning charms on them. They'll Scourgify  
themselves every night. They're shrunk down, but you'll  
need to take them out of the bag before tomorrow at noon,  
when they'll return to their normal shape. I was guessing  
on the sizes, so if they don't fit, send them back with notes  
on the necessary alterations on Thursday, and I'll get  
them back to you Friday night._

_~Hestia Jones  
_

Petunia searches through the bundles of food and finds a small cloth bag, and opens it to find a dozen doll-sized robes, all in blacks and browns and blues and deep, wine-coloured reds. Unsure of what will happen when they change sizes, she stacks them in a neat pile and sets them on the floor. The following day at noon, they suddenly begin to expand and grow, and before she knows it, there are twelve full-sized wizard robes lying there.

She stares at them for a moment, then crushes them into a bag and tucks them away in the cupboard under the stairs. She won't show them to Vernon; he'd only be upset, and she doesn't want to wear robes. Her clothes are the only part of her old life that she has left. Besides, she has nothing else to fill her days, and washing laundry by hand takes so long that it almost alleviates the boredom for a short time. The work with her hands, her aching back, they remind her of gardening. She likes doing something to feel productive; sitting around all day is making her feel like she's going mad.


	5. Days 13, 17 & 30

Petunia has nightmares almost every night, but sometimes between the nightmares are wonderful dreams, dreams that she hasn't had in years about memories from a time she barely remembers when she's awake. She and Lily run through the grass hand in hand, playing and laughing and refusing to leave each other's sides. They dance and sing along to the radio in Petunia's bedroom, holding hairbrushes or spoons like microphones. Petunia sits against a tree with one arm wrapped around her little sister, laboriously sounding out word after word from the book in her hand as Lily listens intently to tales of Winnie-the-Pooh.

They're always children in the dreams, always too young to know that Lily's a witch, that Petunia's a Muggle. Too young to know that one day they won't be this close, or even close at all.

* * *

Petunia thinks it really shouldn't surprise her that Dudley is the first one to voice his concern for Harry, but it does all the same. He mutters it softly one night, in the middle of their silent dinner. "D'you think Harry's okay?" His gaze is focused on the one uncovered window in the house, a high kitchen window over the locked back door. It offers a view of a tall tree, birds flitting through the branches. Sometimes, Petunia watches them for hours.

"Mum?" he says to get her attention, and she smiles reassuringly at him.

"I'm sure he's fine, Dudders. We would have heard something if he wasn't," she answers, and the way that Dudley still looks distressed almost breaks her heart.

"He should've come with us," her son insists, and he turns back to his dinner without another word.

"I'm sure he's safer with his own—" Petunia starts to answer, and Vernon pushes his plate away, the food barely touched, mutters something about their conversation ruining his appetite, and leaves the room.

* * *

Sometimes, Petunia forgets what Hestia Jones looks like.

She feels silly when she thinks about it, even though she's only spent a single day with Hestia in her entire life and thinks it's perfectly understandable that she wouldn't remember her face. There's guilt, too, though, because the witch is out there somewhere, and despite the war going on around them, she finds the time and resources to send food every week and to write letters that fill Petunia's lonely days.

It's a struggle for her to see anything but Lily's face when she thinks of Hestia. That's not really anything new; Lily's face has been superimposed over that of every witch Petunia has ever heard about in her life, as if to be magical one only needed red hair and brilliant green eyes and a cheerful smile. The wizards take on different forms, but the witches are always replicas of her sister until she sees them for herself.

_Ms Jones had dark hair,_ she reminds herself, but still the witch's face doesn't come to her - she's just Lily, hair dyed dark and cut short. _No,_ she thinks, _not Lily._Hestia isn't Lily at all - she's nothing like her. Only the magic is the same. The wand, the spells, the self-confidence that comes with being able to turn your enemies into a toad or something just as awful.

Only the magic, but that's all Petunia can picture when she thinks of either of them. The one thing that firmly sets them together in the same group and relegates Petunia to another. Hestia may not be much like Lily, but she's _nothing _like Petunia. What could they possibly have in common?

_We're both lonely,_ Petunia thinks. The realisation comes as a shock, in a way. _Lonely and afraid. _

For reasons she couldn't explain even if she tried, somehow those few things in common make their differences— including the magic— seem not quite so important anymore.


	6. Day 40

_Mrs Dursley,_

_School began on the first of September, as usual. Snape_  
_has been made the headmaster at Hogwarts. I don't know_  
_how that happened, even with the Ministry under their_  
_control. He can't be trusted. He killed Dumbledore; what_  
_makes his precious Dark Lord think he won't turn on him,_  
_too? Snape is a murderer... He's nearly as evil as You-_  
_Know-Who._

Petunia's not sure what to think of this information. She tries to remember Severus Snape and sees a young boy, bitter and nasty, but also loving. At least when it came to Lily. She remembers the way he beamed happily when Lily held his hand, how he protected her when an older boy picked on her, how he'd always hold out his arms when she climbed trees as if he intended to catch her if she fell, even though he wasn't anywhere near strong enough to actually be of any help. Somewhere in her mind she's certain that he is a murderer, that he's evil. But she can't put him on the same level as Voldemort, if only because she's equally certain that Lily never would have been able to either.

_There have been reports of more attacks on Muggles. We  
don't hear many specifics, but frankly, sometimes I'm  
glad of that._

_Dedalus has gone into hiding. It's too dangerous for him_  
_to stay in one place now, so he left the night before last._

_Of all the things I thought this war would bring, I never_  
_thought it would involve spending so much time sitting_  
_around waiting for something to happen. Everyone tells_  
_you war is horrifying and scary and terribly hard to_  
_survive, but they never tell you how boring it can be, do_  
_they?_

_~Hestia_


	7. Days 52 & 64

Petunia's read all the books in the house a dozen times now, the wizarding world's folklore and fairytales becoming as real and natural to her as any Muggle ones have ever been, and maybe more so. Giants, vampires, werewolves... They haunt her nightmares, along with the Death Eaters that always look like Sirius Black and are always after her every time she closes her eyes.

She can practically recite the books from memory, so she devotes most of her time to Hestia's letters. She rations them - after a quick skim through the words to make sure nothing too important is written there, she starts at the top with just the first paragraph. Maybe two paragraphs, if she can't help herself. Then she sets the letter aside.

She reads a bit more each night before bed, and sometimes that's a blessing, Hestia's words about hope and determination and life before the war rocking her to sleep as she goes over them in her mind. But sometimes it's a curse, and her nightmares are filled with the devastation Hestia tries not to describe in too much detail. (It doesn't matter, really; Petunia's imagination supplies the rest.) She talks about vampires working for the other side. Inferi, which are, as far as Petunia can tell, something akin to the zombies of films, but controlled by intelligent wizards capable of planning, not just a hunger for brains. She tells her about how Voldemort died, how he came back. She tells her whatever seems to cross her mind as she's writing the letter, and Petunia hangs on every word.

* * *

Petunia worries about her husband. Vernon wakes up at the same time every morning and showers and dresses as if he were going to work. He eats breakfast, then settles into an armchair near the front window, closes his eyes, and doesn't move again until lunchtime. She wonders sometimes if he's imagining himself at the office. It was never a secret that Vernon took pride in his ability to provide well for his family. Being trapped here, unable to work or take them out, unable to protect them, knowing that his job can't possibly even be there waiting for him when this is over, seems to be more than he can bear.

After lunch, he returns to his chair, and only leaves it to eat once more before retiring to bed. He barely seems to realize that there are two other people living with him, and almost never talks to them anymore.

Not that there's much to talk about, of course. They don't ever have to fill each other in on the events of their day because they spend all of their days together. None of them truly have individual experiences anymore.

Sometimes, Petunia tries to come up with things to say. She talks about the antics of the birds she saw out the window, the spider she chased around the bathroom. Vernon nods and grunts his acknowledgement, but never seems to hear the words.

She almost never talks about the war, though, or about Hestia, or Harry, or about life before they went into hiding. Every time she tries, Vernon just gets angry and leaves the table, and his face stays a reddish purple for hours. Dudley has never been much for idle chatter, either, so silence has become a near-constant thing. If Petunia had to pick just one thing that she hates most about this tiny house and this awful war and everything that's happened, it would be the silence. It makes the days feel longer and lonelier than she ever thought possible.


	8. Day 74

In solitude, two months seem a year and each day after seems an eternity, and sometimes Petunia thinks she's mad for keeping a calendar because it only emphasises how hopeless their situation has become. October comes and brings her birthday with it, and no one remembers. Maybe it shouldn't matter, but it does. So she writes back to Hestia (she's always Hestia in Petunia's mind now, even if she's still Ms Jones on paper). This time it's her letter that's long and rambling where it would usually be concise and to the point. She pours out her worries and her fears, her boredom and her stress, and the parchment gladly receives them, the magical quill shaking in Petunia's hand.

_Ms Jones,_

_Today is my birthday. I don't mention this because I_  
_expect anything from you; I just wanted someone to know._  
_My sister always remembered my birthday. I know that it's_  
_silly - it's been so many years since she died, and we were_  
_never close, not since we were young - but I miss her_  
_terribly. Especially now. This world is her world, and for_  
_the first time I'm experiencing at least a small part of it,_  
_and it doesn't feel right that she shouldn't be here._

_The days don't seem to pass at normal speed anymore._  
_Every moment lasts a lifetime. Maybe that's why I'm_  
_thinking about Lily so much. I don't know what sort of_  
_sister that makes me, only missing her in times of_  
_boredom._

_I apologise for going on about these things. I know that_  
_you have no reason to care, but again, I just want to tell_  
_someone. Anyone. Vernon doesn't talk at all lately, he just_  
_sleeps and sulks, and I worry about him all the time. I_  
_worry what this is doing to him, to his heart. I worry_  
_about Dudley, too. A boy his age should be in school and_  
_with friends and out having fun. It was at my insistence_  
_that Harry stayed in our home all those years, and now I_  
_can only blame myself for what my family is going_  
_through. I just wish I'd known. I wish there'd been_  
_another choice, but there wasn't. I did what I thought was_  
_right. What I owed to my sister. I don't think Vernon will_  
_ever forgive me._

_I can't help but wonder if we'll ever be free. I can't bear_  
_to spend the rest of my life in this house. I miss the sun. I_  
_miss _rain,_ of all things. I miss my life. Will this war ever __end?_

_~Petunia_

She lifts the quill, positions it to write the D of her last name, and then sets it aside instead. She rereads the letter and almost tears it up, but the basket will magically leave them soon, and she doesn't have time to write another. And she thinks maybe Hestia will understand, if only a little.


	9. Day 75

The next evening, the basket reappears in the centre of the dining room table, like always, heaping with food. A rolled piece of parchment is balanced on top, and there's a single balloon, shining gold and brilliant, its string tied to the basket handle. In her nervousness, unsure of her last letter and Hestia's reaction, Petunia accidentally tears the parchment as she pries it from the wax seal, but gets it open, eventually. She anxiously reads the entire thing at once, a luxury she rarely allows herself.

_Petunia,_

_I know there are days when I don't see the point in getting_  
_out of bed anymore, and I chose this side; I can't imagine_  
_how difficult it must be for you and your family, thrown_  
_into this without any choice. Just know that what you did_  
_in taking Harry in, in keeping him safe all those years,_  
_may have saved the world. You have to believe it was_  
_worth it._

_I've heard that maybe things were not so simple as all_  
_that. I've heard... well, a lot of things. About you, about_  
_Harry. I can't say I condone much of it. I can't even say_  
_that I understand how you justified it, but -_

_I'm going off on a tangent here, aren't I? I didn't write to_  
_scold you, or to make you feel guilty. I just wanted to say_  
_that I know sometimes there is no 'right' choice, and that_  
_what seems easy to some can be terribly hard for others._

_That even if I don't really understand the things you did,_  
_after three months spent reading your letters, I can't_  
_believe that your decisions concerning all of this have_  
_been easily made. That I realise some of those decisions_  
_may not have been - and may not currently be - easy to_  
_live with, either._

_Right now, all any of us can do is try to survive. I firmly_  
_believe that the war _will_ end, and we _will_ win. I don't _

_know when, or how, but I have faith in Harry and the _

_Order, and this _will_ be over one day._

_I'd tell you to be strong and brave in the meantime, but I_  
_don't think I need to. You already know. You already are._

_Happy Birthday, Petunia._

_Make sure you pop the balloon._

_~Hestia_

By the time she reaches the end of Hestia's letter, Petunia is crying. She drops the parchment onto the table, dabs at her eyes, and then picks up the letter and reads it again.

After some time has passed and she's calmed down, she studies the balloon floating serenely before her. She can't understand why it should be popped. It's beautiful and almost looks as if it were made of real gold. A dozen candles reflect off the shiny surface and fill the room with bouncing, moving flashes of light. She stares at it for a while, mesmerized by the way it slowly spins even though the air around it is motionless.

Finally, she goes to her sewing kit and retrieves a needle. The instant the tip touches the balloon, it pops with a _BANG_, but doesn't fall away. Instead, a flood of tiny flowers and leaves fill the air, swirling around her. And _rain_. Light rain that reminds her of dancing on the lawn through the summer afternoon showers with her sister when they were young. It occurs to Petunia that she should be terrified of the way that it's all happening, annoyed at the fact that the rain is soaking through her clothes and the wet flowers and leaves are covering the floor and sticking to everything, but she just closes her eyes and looks up toward where the warm sun should be, beaming down at her. She holds out her hands and sees herself outside, and Lily is beside her, arms raised and face to the sky, damp grass soft under her feet as she spins in circles. Petunia spins too, her skirt whirling around her legs, wind in her hair.

Slowly the rain dies away, and Petunia stops spinning and opens her eyes to an empty, dry dining room. She realizes that her clothes are dry too, and that the mess is gone. The only things left are a deflated balloon lying on the table, and a single flower that had fallen into her hand and then didn't disappear with the rest, as if to prove to her that it all really did happen. She sinks down into the nearest chair and cries, her sobs echoing through the silent, empty house. She cries for Vernon, for Dudley, for herself. For Harry. And for the first time in sixteen years, she cries for Lily. She carefully clutches the little flower in her hand, afraid to damage it in any way, and misses her sister so much that it actually hurts.

At some point, the ache in her chest dulls and fades away, and she just sits, exhausted, for what feels like an eternity. She closes her eyes, and in her mind, she can still see Lily, tugging her by the hand to the playground every Saturday morning, and creeping into Petunia's room on nights when there were thunderstorms, and prattling on endlessly about everything and nothing for as long as her sister would listen. Somewhere along the way, the tears stop.

"Thank you," she whispers in the direction of the basket and wishes more than anything that Hestia could actually hear it.

"Petunia?" Vernon calls from upstairs suddenly, and she nearly jumps out of her seat. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine, darling," she lies, and she hastily picks up the balloon, tucking it and the flower into her pocket along with Hestia's letter. She hurries to the bathroom to rinse the evidence of her crying from her face before going to bed.


	10. Days 81 & 82

It takes Petunia the better part of the next six days to write her reply. She starts the letter over a dozen times, feeling ridiculous as she tries to convey her gratitude on parchment.

_Dear Hestia,_

_I cannot thank you enough for your gift. I -_

She shakes her head and starts again. She's writing on regular paper so as not to waste the magical parchment, and the plastic pen feels odd between her fingertips after writing with nothing but a quill for so long. The thought that Muggle things are becoming foreign to her makes her shudder, and when she starts again, she settles for something simple.

_Hestia,_

_Thank you for your gift. It was wonderful and greatly_  
_appreciated._

She rereads those sentences, considers them for a moment, and then reaches for the quill and carefully writes them on a clean bit of parchment.

_If I may ask, when is your birthday? Do you have a family?  
Do you work? I'm afraid that even after all this time, I know  
very little about you... _

Pausing there, her eyes flicker toward Vernon, sitting in his chair with his eyes closed. She turns back to the parchment and pens the last sentence, and in her imagination, she can almost feel her husband's disapproval.

_Has there been any word about Harry?_

_~Petunia_

* * *

That night, Petunia hears noises in the attic. They're scratching, clawing sounds, like an animal. She lies awake, grateful that Vernon is a sound sleeper, and listens to the sounds overhead, wondering what it could be. _Maybe it's a bird,_she thinks. She hopes. If it's mice, she doesn't know what they'll do. Vernon will be outraged if he has to live in a house with mice - and quite frankly, she's not too thrilled at the idea either.

So she spends the next day searching for a door into the attic, and finally finds it in the back of the spare bedroom, concealed in the wall with only small, rusted hinges to give away its existence and the slimmest of edges for her to grip with her fingertips in order to open it. The door sticks, and when she does manage to pull it open, dust billows out into the room. Jumping back and waving her hands in front of her, she waits for everything to settle before peering into the darkened doorway. Only the first few steps are visible in the dim lighting, and she has to dislodge a candle from its holder on the wall and take it with her just to see where she's putting her feet.

The attic isn't large, and there's enough dust and grime coating every surface that she's fairly certain no one's been up there in a while. Boxes and old furniture and every other manner of thing are strewn about, and she only gives the mess a precursory glance before turning and going back downstairs_._


	11. Day 82

_Petunia,_

_You're very welcome. I'm glad that you enjoyed it._

_No news on Harry yet, but as they say, no news is good_  
_news. If he'd been captured, the Death Eaters would be_  
_shouting it from the rooftops, if only to further lower_  
_morale. I don't know how those children have managed_  
_to stay out of sight for so long, but hopefully they're_  
_getting done everything that needs done, and this will all_  
_be over soon._

_As for knowing something about me, I'm afraid there's not_  
_much to know. I work for the Ministry. It's gotten quite a_  
_bit harder as of late, what with the Death Eaters running_  
_things, but I mostly just do paperwork all day, so I can't_  
_complain too much._

_I don't really have any family left - my parents died nearly_  
_twenty years ago, I'm not really the marrying sort, and I've_  
_never had any children of my own. I did recently get a baby_  
_Kneazle to keep me company, though - Kneazles are sort of_  
_like cats, but larger and quite a bit smarter. She's grey and has_  
_gigantic ears. She's adorable; I spend far too much time doting_  
_on her. I named her Shadow - how original of me, right?_

_~Hestia_

And scribbled at the bottom, almost as an afterthought:

_Oh, I almost forgot - my birthday is 3 June._


	12. Days 90 & 91

**Days 90 & 91**

Petunia's next letter requests a replenishment of her cleaning supplies, and everything she's asked for appears along with the food on Friday. The next morning, directly after breakfast and with Vernon safely ensconced in his chair for at least a few hours, Petunia goes back to the attic, cleaning supplies in hand.

By the time she finishes wiping the dust from the stairs and door and begins cleaning off an old, cluttered table, she has to stop to make lunch. She returns that afternoon, picking her way through the attic's contents carefully, almost reverently. While everything but the furniture had been removed from the living space of the house with very few exceptions (the books; a patchwork quilt on one of the beds; an old, stained apron in the kitchen), the attic obviously hadn't been touched before they'd arrived.

In one corner is a pile of random things atop a box. There are tiny figurines of men in robes riding broomsticks, and a dingy, mildew-smelling teddy bear, and a toy-sized broom. _A child lived here,_ she thinks, and she already knew that, perhaps, because of the children's books in the spare bedroom, but these things discarded in the attic seem to drive the point home. A half-closed box reveals child-sized robes and old Muggle-style boy's clothes, small shoes and warm cloaks. The way it's all there, lumped together, feels wrong somehow. Sad, even. _Children don't generally outgrow both their toys and clothes all at once, _she thinks, and her heart sinks.

Feeling like she's invading something intensely private and not at all her business, she sets the robes back into the box and closes it back up, pushing it into its place in the corner.

She doesn't sleep well that night at all.

* * *

The next morning brings Petunia back to the attic, almost despite her own will. Avoiding the corner filled with the little boy's belongings, she moves to the far side of the room and begins cleaning again. This is the first real thing she's had to occupy her time in months, and even though she's filthy and tired and her muscles ache from the bending, stretching and lifting, she feels happier than she has since arriving to this house.

The other side of the room feels less intrusive. As she opens boxes—always on the lookout for whatever has been scratching around up there every night—she finds more mundane things. Cookware. Dresses and robes that look as if they're two hundred years old. A painting of a rose. One of the boxes reveals a handful of old wizarding schoolbooks, and she carefully wipes the dust from them and places them at the top of the stairs so that she can bring them down with her later.

The last box she opens that day is the most exciting—a chess set. The pieces look old and battered, as if someone had thrown them onto the floor repeatedly, but they're all there, and she takes that as well.

She resolves to teach Dudley to play chess the next day—_Maybe I can even talk Vernon into a game,_she thinks—but only gets as far as setting the board on the table and lifting a white knight out of the box before she hears a tiny voice.

"_You're_going to play with us?" the knight says incredulously, and she screams, drops it and jumps back, staring at the chess piece lying unassumingly on the wooden game board.

"You... you talk?" she asks, her voice almost a whisper.

The little figurine rocks back and forth and appears to be shaking its head. "_Muggles,_" it says disdainfully, and the horse it rides on climbs to its feet, walks back to the box and leaps over the side. "We don't play with Muggles," the knight tells her, and then falls back among its fellow game pieces, still and silent.


	13. Day 107

**Day 107**

The books are very frustrating. They're full of how-to instructions on spells and charms and potions, all of them useless to her. She reads them anyway, in secret, tucked away in the spare bedroom. At least, until the night Vernon wanders in and catches her.

She's lying on the bed, reading glasses perched on her nose, engrossed in the hand motions required to Transfigure a hamster into a quill, when he walks into the room. If she'd realized it was him and not Dudley, then she may have closed the book and set it aside faster. Instead, she finishes the sentence she's reading. When she glances up, Vernon's staring at the cover of the textbook, his face reddish purple, eyes bulging.

"I knew it!" he shouts. Petunia pales, discarding the book on the bedside table and getting to her feet. "You want to be just like them! Just another freak in your freak family!"

She gasps. "No! Of course not!"

"Writing letters to those people all day!" he rages, throwing his hands up in the air. "With _QUILLS_! Reading this... this..." He pushes past her and snatches the book off the bed. "This _Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration!_" He opens it to the middle and rips the spine in two, then throws the separate halves against the wall. With a pained cry, Petunia runs to pick them up. The book may be full of spells she can never do, but she has so few things to read; she glares at him as if he's destroyed her most prized possession instead of just an old, musty-smelling children's textbook.

Vernon spies the pile of other books on the desk across the room and heads toward them, and she blocks his path, her hands trembling where they grip the broken book she's holding. "Stop it!" she snaps, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Vernon, _please!_"

He pauses, looking at her as if he barely knows her, and as his gaze drifts down to the textbook she's clutching to her chest, his lip curls up into a sneer. "You're just another freak," he says disgustedly, storming past her and out of the room. A sob escaping her, Petunia leans against the nearest wall and then sinks down to the floor, her shoulders shaking as she cries. Dudley hovers outside the doorway, his expression one of distress and confusion.

When she tries to go to bed a few hours later, she finds Vernon's locked the door. She calls to him to open it, but he won't answer, so she sleeps in the spare bedroom that night.


	14. Days 109 & 122

**Days 109 - 122**

_Hestia,_

_Christmas is coming in just a little more than a_  
_month. I was wondering if I may be able to ask you_  
_to purchase some things for Dudley? I'll pay for_  
_them, of course. We withdrew all of our money_  
_from the bank and brought it here with us, so I can_  
_send some along with a list of things I'd like_  
_to get him. If it's too much trouble or too dangerous,_  
_then don't give it another thought. It's just that he's had_  
_such a hard year... I'd like to make sure that_  
_Christmas is special for him._

She doesn't tell Hestia about the fight. She wouldn't tell her even if they were the oldest and best of friends, of course, but it scares her how much she _wants_ to. She takes a minute to consider how very angry Vernon would be if he found out she'd even _told _Hestia about all that money just sitting, virtually unprotected, in the house, but decides that she doesn't much care - despite the abundant proof she's been given over the years that magical people cannot be trusted, she can't bring herself to think of Hestia as anything but honest and kind.

_Dudley misses the telly and his games and computer,  
and I thought of getting him a Game Boy..._

_I'd also like to see if we can start stockpiling things_  
_to eat for Christmas dinner. Can that also be bought_  
_at Muggle shops? I can include money for that as well._

_~ Petunia_

Placing the parchment into the basket, she goes back to preparing lunch, still trying to think of what other Christmas presents she can get for Dudley - her options are fairly limited without electricity, after all.

That night, the scratching in the attic continues. It's not right overhead anymore, but she can still hear it through the door. She wishes there were a different room for her to sleep in. _I have to find what's making that noise, _she thinks as she lies awake.

This new bed is small, too small for two people, and she hasn't slept in bed this size since she lived with her parents. She hasn't slept alone since then, either, and she hasn't become used to it even after nearly a week of waiting for Dudley to go to bed and then slipping off to the spare room. There's no warm body to roll toward in the middle of the night, no one to hold her when she wakes up after a nightmare about Death Eaters. It feels all wrong; her heart sinks in her chest every time she gets into the small bed.

Each morning, she's up with the sun, making the bed before going down to the kitchen to cook breakfast. She won't let Dudley see that she's not sleeping in the same room as Vernon. She can't. He's been through too much; she won't upset and confuse him that way. She _won't._

* * *

_Petunia,_

_I'd be happy to do some shopping for you, though_  
_keep in mind I can't make any guarantees, what with_  
_things the way they are._

_Still nothing about Harry, I'm afraid._

If Hestia notices that she didn't ask about presents for her husband, she doesn't say anything, and the rest of the letter is about the war.

Petunia wonders where Hestia will spend Christmas. She'd said she had no family... surely she couldn't be spending it home alone, with just a cat to keep her company?

Petunia's next letter includes a list of things for Dudley, as well as money. As an afterthought, she adds in the names of stores where the items can be bought, just in case. Hestia is a witch, after all. She probably doesn't frequent Muggle stores. She probably doesn't even know what half of the things on the list _are_.

Over the next few days, Petunia goes back to the attic often. She cleans little by little, only staying until she can't bear the cold any more, moving boxes aside and wiping down furniture and shaking out old dust cloths. She seems to be moving the dust around more than getting rid of it, but it gives her something to do with her days.

And then one day, she's busily disentangling a pile of old jewellery she found lying in a small box when she hears the scratching sound. Looking around wildly, she sees an old trunk off to one side, shaking a bit as if something is trapped inside of it. _What on earth?_ she thinks, getting slowly to her feet and grabbing a broken chair leg for protection against whatever animal might be trapped within the trunk. She steps closer, unlatching and throwing open the lid before jumping back.


	15. Day 122 Part One

**Day 122 (Part One) **

The lid of the trunk falls back against its hinges, and her heart stops in her chest.

A man, dressed in dark robes with a skull mask over his face, stands up and steps out of the trunk. She takes a step backward, her entire body trembling.

He pulls the mask away, and it's Sirius Black, eyes wild and filled with malicious glee. "But you're _dead,_" she protests in her shock, and then he raises his wand and points not at her, but behind her.

"_Avada Kedavra,_" he barks in the voice that has haunted her nightmares, and a green flash of light flies by her. She turns quickly, and then can't bring herself to turn back and face her attacker. _Dudley. _Dudley is lying on the floor, still and unmoving.

"No, no, no, no," she cries and races to the fallen body of her son, clutching him to her. "No, please no." And then she's screaming, her heart breaking, and she knows Sirius is behind her, knows that he'll kill her next, but she can't bring herself to care.

"Mum?" she hears from the stairwell, and then Dudley's face appears, going pale at the sight of his own likeness dead in his mother's arms. "What...?" He falls silent as he looks behind her, and before she can even feel relieved, _ecstatic_, that he's alive, she's afraid all over again. Dudley whimpers as she twists her neck around to look over her shoulder and finds herself staring at a floating, faceless black robe, bony fingers reaching toward her.

"Mum!" Dudley shouts, more panicked this time, and the desperation in her son's voice sets her into motion. She launches herself toward the stairs, dragging Dudley down with her, and they fall painfully down the remaining steps, sprawled out on the floor. Ignoring the pain of the fall, she leaps to her feet, slams the door shut, then hurries her son down the stairs.

"Stay with your father," she tells him, pushing him through the doorway into the living room, and she runs into the kitchen, scrawling a panicked, "HELP!" onto a sheet of parchment before dropping it into the basket and sending it away with three taps of the quill.

Petunia hurries back to her family, clutching Dudley against her and sobbing because he'd been _dead_, she'd _seen _him die, whispering, "My sweet boy. No one's going to hurt you, I swear it. No one. Oh, my poor boy." Vernon, very pale, is listening as Dudley tells him that there's a Dementor upstairs. Finally, a moment later, Hestia bursts through the front door and races into the room, Kingsley Shacklebolt close behind her.

Through gasps and tears, Petunia rushes to tell them about what she'd seen in the attic. Hestia nods, her eyes wide.

"Boggart?" she asks, turning to Kingsley.

"Sounds like," Kingsley answers. Their apparent lack of concern is maddening, but oddly soothing all the same. Turning to Petunia, he says, "Wait here. We'll take care of it," before the two of them dash up the stairs.

"What's a Boggart?" Vernon hisses, his face already growing purplish-red now that any danger seems to have passed.

Petunia thinks back to all of the books she's been reading and answers, "They're shape-shifters. They become what you're afraid of." Just thinking about it makes her tighten her grip around her son. Vernons looks as though he can't decide whether to be thankful for the information or angry that she knew the answer in the first place.

When she comes back downstairs only a few moments later, Hestia tells them that the Boggart has been forced back into its trunk and they'll get rid of it; to emphasize that point, Mr. Shacklebolt comes down the stairs at just that moment, the trunk bouncing through the air behind him, latched closed and then tied shut with long ropes. "We'd like to go back up," Hestia says, "and make sure that there's nothing else hiding up there that could cause any trouble. I'll be back as soon as we've disposed of our friend, here."

Petunia gives a jerky nod, still shaking from her ordeal in the attic, and mutters, "Thank you."

"_Thank you?_" Vernon bites out incredulously, leaping to his feet and storming after them. "Now listen here, Shacklebolt," he continues, pushing past Hestia and stopping in front of the surprised-looking Auror, "you said we'd be safe. You gave us two bodyguards, and one's already run off, and the other left us in this place without even checking to make sure nothing here could kill us. We want someone better."

Mr Shacklebolt's eyes narrow in irritation, but when he speaks, his voice is calm and reasonable. "Boggarts cannot kill you, Mr Dursley. They can only scare you. I'm sorry that it gave your family a fright, but you were not in any real danger. This is the safest place for you, and Hestia is the person best placed to help you. Our side cannot move as freely as we once could, and we're under constant scrutiny from You-Know-Who and his followers. Hestia isn't publicly associated with the Order. She can get food and other supplies more easily than most of us." Flicking his wand at the trunk bobbing up and down behind him, he opens the door and continues in a placating tone, "Your family is already eating and living better than most of our people. We're doing the best we can."

"We didn't ask to be brought here," Vernon insists, looking as if he will follow Shacklebolt out the door. The Auror pauses, but instead Vernon turns to glare at Petunia and shouts, "We should never have taken your useless nephew in! He's more trouble than he's worth. Always has been." And with that, he storms off to the kitchen.

Hestia stares after him, outraged, and Shacklebolt looks around awkwardly and clears his throat, his expression full of grim anger, but not really surprise. Petunia can't bring herself to look them in the eyes.

"You'll be back?" she finally asks, her gaze flickering up to meet Hestia's, and the witch nods slowly, her expression fading from incredulous rage into something more sympathetic, laced with hurt. Petunia responds with a nod of her own and turns her attention back to her son.


	16. Day 122 Part Two

**Day 122 (Part Two)**

Vernon returns to his chair a few minutes after Hestia and Mr Shacklebolt leave, still fuming, and Petunia all but forces Dudley into the corner of the sofa in the same room, where she feels it's probably safest. She's coddled him in every way she can think of, and even though he's started grumbling at her to leave him alone - he doesn't _need _a blanket or more ice cream or for her to read to him, he says - she still feels like she should be doing something more. Hestia knocks at the door an hour later, alone this time, and Petunia feels indescribably relieved as she lets the other woman in.

"I apologize," she says softly as she closes the door. "For... well, for my husband. This hasn't been easy on him."

Hestia gives her a sympathetic smile and nods. "I won't be long," she assures Petunia. "There shouldn't be anything else up there; I just want to make sure." She begins climbing the steps, and Petunia hurries after her.

"Alone?" she exclaims, her tone incredulous.

"Yes..." Hestia replies, one eyebrow lifting sardonically, giving Petunia an amused smirk. "There's no one else here."

"Should I... well, should I go with you?" Petunia asks. She sounds a lot braver than she feels, but moves up another step anyway. "In case something happens, I mean. We won't know if we're all downstairs."

Hestia shakes her head. "It'll be safer if you stay down here. You wouldn't be able to fight against anything that's up there, and I can't focus on keeping myself safe if I'm worried about you."

Petunia nods, feeling ridiculous for even offering, but Hestia just grins at her, reaching out to squeeze her hand gently. "Thank you, though," she says, then releases Petunia's hand and hurries up the stairs.

She watches Hestia until she turns the corner and disappears down the hall. Not knowing what else to do, she returns to her family.

Twenty minutes later, Hestia still hasn't come back, and Petunia begins feeling on edge, her gaze drifting to the stairs repeatedly. Finally, she loosens her tight grip on Dudley and begins pacing.

"Petunia, sit down," Vernon grumbles, one eye opening to peer up at her.

"I hope she's all right up there," Petunia mutters in response, and then her face burns red as Vernon glares at her. "If something overpowers her, it'll come after us next," she goes on for the sake of calming him, and he slumps back into his chair with an angry frown contorting his features. Sinking down onto the sofa, she watches the clock for another five minutes before standing again and walking toward the stairs.

"I'm going to go up and make sure she doesn't need anything," she explains, and Vernon looks incredibly annoyed, but doesn't try to stop her.

"I'm going, too," Dudley decides, getting up, and Petunia whirls around to face him, shaking her head.

"Oh, no, Diddykins, it's too dangerous!" she insists, already trying to lead him back to the sofa, but he shrugs out of her grasp.

"Mum, it's just as dangerous for you," he points out, then shrugs again. "Probably more - I'm bigger than you, and stronger. You check on her. I'll make sure nothing hurts you."

Petunia's heart swells with pride and love at his protective words, even if she knows that there's no way she'll allow him to go with her.

Vernon climbs to his feet suddenly, stomping across the room and pushing himself between his wife and son. "Dudley, sit back down. You're not going up there; you could be killed!"

Dudley frowns, looking confused. "But... you're letting Mum go. Aren't you worried about her?"

Lowering her gaze to the floor, Petunia folds her arms over her chest. "Do as your father says, Dudley," she insists softly. Still looking bewildered and just a little bit angry at Vernon, Dudley returns to his seat. Vernon doesn't say a word, doesn't look at his wife, just storms back over his chair, sitting down and closing his eyes again, still as a statue.

Fighting back sudden tears, Petunia turns away and goes upstairs, making her way slowly and cautiously to the spare room.

The hallway and bedroom are silent, and the door to the attic stands open. Grabbing the candle from its place on the wall, she tiptoes up the stairs and stops four steps up, just able to see into the dim attic.

Hestia is still up there, opening boxes and old cupboards and trunks, silently flicking and waving her wand in various directions, grim concentration evident on her face. A pile of clothes reveals something small that starts to run away, and she does away with it in an instant. Petunia flinches.

Turning her gaze to the pile of the little boy's belongings in the corner, Hestia's face twists into an expression of sad reluctance before she begins sifting through the pile. _She knew him, _Petunia thinks. Feeling like she's intruding, she goes back down to the bedroom and sits on the bed, waiting patiently until Hestia comes down the steps a few minutes later.

If she's surprised to see Petunia sitting there, Hestia doesn't show it. "Nothing up there but a few mice," she says, "and I got rid of them. Nothing else should bother you."

Petunia nods. "I apologise. I shouldn't have been up there looking through things that aren't mine anyway... I'm sorry."

Hestia shrugs; the smile that she gives is a sad one. "It's fine. You can go up there all you want. Just let me know if anything else starts moving; just because nothing's there now doesn't mean something won't show up later."

"The chess set moves." Petunia remembers suddenly, and she hurries to get the box from the place its sat on the desk since the knight had told her she couldn't play with them. "It talks, too." Setting the box down on the bed, she opens the cover and looks at Hestia expectantly. Hestia only grins.

"It's wizard chess. It's supposed to talk," Hestia explains, dropping to her knees beside the box and pulling out the same white knight Petunia had picked up last time, as well as the black king. "Hey, wake up."

The knight, instead of being rude, grins a tiny little stone grin. "Miss Hestia! Have you come to play a game with us?"

"Not today, I'm afraid," she replies in a regretful tone, and the knight fidgets atop his horse. The king crosses his arms over his chest.

"You don't come to see us for years, and now that you're here, you won't even allow us one game?" he grumbles, and she laughs and kisses his stone cheek.

"Maybe next time," she says. "Besides, you won't be bored for long. Petunia, do your son and husband play?"

Petunia begins to say that no, they don't, when the knight chimes in, sounding aghast, "Miss Hestia, that creature is a Muggle!"

Hestia narrows her eyes at the knight, and he shrinks back at whatever he sees in her expression. "Yes, she is, and you'll play with her if I tell you to, or I'll transfigure you into a Muggle chess set that doesn't speak or move at all."

The king, obviously sensing that things were not looking very good for him or his 'army', interrupts with, "Of course we will. Don't listen to him; you know he's always had a nasty temper. Especially after being left alone in that dark, dusty box for so long..."

"It's fine," Petunia interrupts, trying not to sound hurt. Being rejected by a toy is quite possibly more than she can handle today. "Vernon wouldn't want to play, and Dudley doesn't know how." Frowning at the angry little knight, she adds, "And I don't think I'd feel comfortable playing with a talking chess set."

Hestia shrugs. "Oh well. Sorry, back in your box," she says cheerfully. The knight begins to protest, but falls silent and still as he's settled back into his place.

"Back in your box, _Your Majesty_," the king corrects. Hestia rolls her eyes, drops him into the box, and closes the lid.

Turning to grin up at Petunia, Hestia laughs. "Ridiculously self-important little things, aren't they?"

Petunia gives her a bland smile, still annoyed at the words of the tiny knight. "Yes, they are." Wanting to change the subject, she asks, "They were yours?"

Hestia nods, turning back to look at the closed box and running her fingers over the engraving on the bevelled edges. "Yeah."

"This is your house," Petunia presses.

"My parents' house," Hestia answers softly. She's silent for a moment, staring at her fingers as they dip and twist across the designs carved into the wooden box, and just as Petunia is about to apologize for bringing up the subject at all, she continues. "I was away at Hogwarts. My parents and my little brother... well, my parents were very active during the first war against You-Know-Who."  
Hestia climbs to her feet and brushes dust from the ground off of her robes, her expression wistful.

Petunia's memories of her own parents, killed in a car crash - or so she was told, anyway - only two years before Lily died, race through her mind. She means it when she says, "I'm sorry," her voice almost a whisper.

"It was a long time ago," Hestia says with a shrug, but the cheery smile she adopts doesn't quite reach her eyes. She looks Petunia up and down, then grins and changes the subject. "So do you enjoy washing clothes by hand or something?"

Petunia blushes a deep red, embarrassed. "Yes?" she answers in a vaguely hopeful tone, and Hestia gives her an amused, but sceptical, look. Sighing, she admits, "It gives me something to do. And Vernon... well - "

"It's all right," Hestia interrupts gently. "I understand." Petunia expected hurt or anger, or at least annoyance, but Hestia's sympathetic tone suggests none of those things. Feeling a little guilty anyway, Petunia looks away.

"Mum?" Dudley's voice calls from the doorway, and Petunia jumps at the sudden sound. "Everything all right?"

"Yes, Dudders," she answers reassuringly. "Everything's safe now."

"Good. Um, Dad wanted to know when we're eating." Just talking about his father makes Dudley's face cloud over with concern, and Petunia feels her heart break a little.

"I'll be down in a moment to start preparing supper."

"Okay." He turns to leave, but then stops and looks back, turning to Hestia this time. "No more Dementors, right?"

"No," she says firmly, and Dudley seems to relax in the face of her confidence. "No Dementors."

"Good," he says with a nod and leaves.

"You're welcome to join us," Petunia offers as the sound of Dudley's footsteps on the stairs echoes down the hall.

"Thanks, but I have to get back. Order meeting tonight." Hestia smiles apologetically.

"Oh... Right, of course." Feeling oddly embarrassed, Petunia turns to go downstairs, Hestia following close behind.

"Besides," the witch says as they pause before the front door, "I doubt Mr. Dursley would appreciate my company tonight." The look on Hestia's face suggests that the feeling would be quite mutual.

"Yes, I'm sure you're right," Petunia answers, hoping that she doesn't look as disappointed as she feels. Vernon never talks to her anymore anyway, and Dudley has never been very talkative. She longs for companionship from someone, anyone else - the fact that Hestia is a witch barely even matters. If she's completely honest with herself, it doesn't matter at all.

"Good night, Petunia." Opening the door just enough to allow her to slip through, Hestia steps out onto the stoop and then disappears with a _CRACK_. Petunia flinches at the sound, then glances around the street, wondering if anyone else heard. She only sees one man, walking from his car to his home, one hand holding a mobile phone and the other clutching a briefcase, and he doesn't seem to be paying attention to anything except his conversation.

This is the first time she's got a good look at anything beyond the front door for months, and Petunia leans outside, breathing in deeply and smiling at the smell of fresh, cool autumn air.

"Close the damn door," Vernon grumbles as he walks up behind her, startling her, and she spins around and slams the door shut. "Just because you're becoming one of those freaks doesn't mean you can get me and Dudley killed by letting them know we're here."

"They can't see the house," she reminds him softly, stepping around him and heading for the kitchen. Vernon starts to follow, but then mutters something about it being pointless to argue with her anyway and returns to his chair.


	17. Days 122 & 123

**Day 122 (Part Three)**

That night, long before Vernon normally retires for the evening, Petunia slips away and heads for bed. Their bed. She won't sleep in the spare room, barely four feet from the attic door. Even with Hestia's reassurances of safety, lying in the dark and jumping at each little noise doesn't seem like it will lead to sleep under any circumstances.

Curling up on the far side of the large bed, she tries to go to sleep. Eventually she hears Dudley go to bed, and then Vernon's slow footsteps echo down the hall as he climbs the stairs. As he walks into the room, the candle he holds reveals her lying there, and he stops in his tracks. It's nearly a full minute before he says anything, and she holds her breath almost the entire time.

"_I'm _not sleeping in that room," he finally says, irritation lacing his tone.

Petunia suppresses a sigh. "Neither am I," she answers, not getting up. "Come to bed, Vernon."

He looks as though he can't decide whether to yell or just leave, and she bites her lip and looks away. "Do you really hate me so much that you can't even be near me?" she asks quietly, and he pauses in his fidgeting and stares at her, but doesn't answer. "I can't do it, you know. Magic. I wasn't trying to anyway, but I couldn't even if I wanted to. It's not something you can learn."

Vernon begins to open his mouth to reply, but then glances down the hall toward Dudley's room and seems to change his mind. Finally stepping through the doorway, he closes the door behind him before saying, "You're lying."

Her wounded expression doesn't seem to have any effect on him, but then it didn't the last four times she tried to discuss this with him, either. At least this time, she's made it past the first three words without him walking away.

Petunia sits up, pulling the blanket up around her chest to protect herself against the cold air and the anger coming off of him in waves. "I can't learn to be magical any more than you could learn to get pregnant," she says, and if a hint of impatience creeps into her voice, it's only because she can't understand why he refuses to believe her. Vernon's eyes bug out at her words.

"It's physically impossible," she elaborates. "I _read a book_, Vernon. I needed something to do, and so I read a book. You can't honestly hate me for _that_?" Looking down at her knees, she blinks back angry tears. A few escape onto her cheeks, hot against her skin, and she hastily dabs them away with the edge of the blanket.

"You're the reason we're here," he says accusingly, and her head snaps back up, her eyes wide.

"Harry - " she begins to say, but he hits his fist against the door so hard that the mirror on the opposite wall falls to the floor and shatters.

"_You!_" he insists. "He's _your_ nephew. _You _wanted to keep him!"

She feels anger boil up within her, and she gets out of bed and storms across the room, carefully avoiding the broken glass, stopping so close to him that she can see the red in his face even in the dim light. "I wanted to keep us safe! Protecting Harry meant protecting us as well! Protecting Dudley!"

"We could have moved away - far away, somewhere those freaks couldn't find us!" he grinds out, his expression all exasperated anger, and Petunia wonders just how long he's wanted to say this.

"He was a _baby_! You'd have let him die?" she asks, the words leaving her mouth before she even knows she's saying them, and for a second she feels as shocked as Vernon looks.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Vernon looks at the broken glass on the floor around them and shakes his head. "We all would have been better off if he had."

His words feel like a slap in the face, and Petunia hugs her arms around herself and avoids his eyes. She begins to walk toward the door, but he doesn't step out of her way. "Please move," she says softly. "I need to get out of this room."

A knock on the door startles them both, and then Dudley's voice calls out, "Mum? Dad?"

Vernon's eyes don't leave her, and Petunia clears her throat and says as calmly as possible, "Yes, darling?"

"I heard things breaking... Is everything okay?" Dudley asks, and Petunia winces at how afraid he sounds.

"Everything's fine, sweetie," Petunia says, moving again to walk past Vernon, and finally he steps aside and lets her open the door. Even with nothing more than the light from a single candle to illuminate the hallway, she can see the concern and apprehension in her son's eyes, and on impulse she reaches out to take his hand in hers. "Come downstairs with me. I was just going to get some ice cream," she lies.

Dudley stares at his father for a long moment before nodding and allowing her to lead him down the hall.

* * *

**Day 123**

Petunia wakes up the next morning on the sofa - she couldn't bring herself to sleep in the spare bedroom, and Vernon had locked the door again by the time she'd returned. Her neck aches from sleeping in the too-small space, and a deep bruise is spreading across her back and hip from tumbling down the stairs and onto the floor when fleeing the attic the day before. She wonders if Dudley is hurt at all. He hasn't mentioned anything, but then he rarely does when it comes to things like this.

Despite day and night not really looking any different in the dark and shrouded house, going to the spare bedroom is easier during the daylight hours. After her shower she goes there to dress, her eyes barely leaving the attic door the entire time, and then hurries downstairs to make breakfast.

Dudley wanders into the kitchen when the smell of bacon fills the house, and Vernon follows close behind, sitting down at the table and utterly ignoring her. Petunia pushes her food around her plate, not hungry in the least, and has to hold back a sigh of relief when her husband gets up and disappears into the living room.

"Mum," Dudley says quietly, his gaze focused on his plate, "is Dad all right?"

Petunia gives him a weak smile. "He's fine, Dudders. Being here is just hard on him." She doesn't really know what else to say.

"Oh." Dudley takes a few bites of his eggs, then stops again. "Are _you _all right?"

"Of course. I'm just tired." Forcing herself to eat a few bites of her breakfast for the sake of not worrying her son, she continues, "That Boggart thing gave me quite a fright yesterday. I didn't sleep well."

Dudley opens his mouth to speak again, his expression belying the inner struggle he's having over his next words, but then he frowns and turns back to his breakfast without a word.


	18. Days 129 & 130

**Day 129**

_Dear Hestia,_

_Thank you again for your help the other day. Please_

_extend my thanks to Auror Shacklebolt as well._

_I want to apologize again for Vernon's reaction. It was a_  
_very scary moment for all of us, and his concern for our_  
_son's safety sometimes gets the better of him.  
_

Petunia rereads what she's written and frowns at how easily lies can spill out of her and onto the parchment.

_I'm afraid I don't have much to say... I haven't been  
sleeping well lately, and I can't seem to focus on  
anything. It seems like the less I have to do each day,  
the more tired I become. I hate to ask, but do you by  
any chance have any books that I might be able to  
borrow? The days seem endless, and at least reading  
is time-consuming, if nothing else. Any books at all -  
wizarding or Muggle - would be wonderful. _

She ends the letter with the same question many of her recent letters have ended with:

_Has there been any news about Harry?  
_  
~ Petunia

* * *

**Day 130**

The next day the basket returns, a large cloth tied around the entire thing to keep the contents from falling out. She carefully unties the knot in the cloth and begins removing the food, and when she gets to the bottom of the basket she finds a half-dozen books. The titles suggest they're all from Hestia's world - things like Hogwarts: A History and The Dragon Tamer's Mistress, the latter of which appears to be the wizarding equivalent of a Muggle romance novel, with a picture on the front cover of a scantily clad woman tracing her finger up and down the chest of a shirtless man, while a fire-breathing dragon swoops back and forth behind them.

The moving picture is hardly a surprise at this point, but she watches it in fascination for a few moments before placing it back with the others and carrying the basket upstairs, piling the books on the bedside table before returning to the dining room. Only once she's put all of the food away does she settle into a chair and turn her attention to Hestia's letter.

_Dear Petunia,_

_I hope you enjoy these. I tried to include a variety._  
_Keep them there if you want to reread them later, or_  
_send them back as you finish - it's up to you. I'll send_  
_along some more next week; I ran out of room in the_  
_basket, or I'd have sent a few more._

_Today was the first time I ever went to a Muggle shop._  
_It was the first time I'd ever spent more than five_  
_minutes in a Muggle place, actually - the closest I ever_  
_got before was your house! I managed to find some of_  
_Dudley's presents. I'll be getting the rest over the next_  
_few days . We'll have to arrange a time for me to start_  
_sending them over a few at a time in the basket. It'll_  
_probably take a few 'trips' to get them all over to you._  
_How about Wednesday? Just send the basket back once_  
_Dudley's gone to bed, so I know the coast is clear!_

_~Hestia_

_P.S. I have to ask you, what are the plastic things that_  
_the Muggles talk to? They seem to be having really_  
_interesting conversations, but I can't see the appeal._  
_Why talk to those things when there are people around?_  
_I almost asked one of the Muggles there, but I didn't want_  
_to attract too much attention, and I was already getting_  
_funny looks because I can't for the life of me figure out_  
_your money..._

Unable to hold back a smile, Petunia grabs a sheet of parchment and her quill and spends the next twenty minutes trying to figure out how to explain Muggle telephones.


End file.
